My Music
by celticBRIDE
Summary: I was 19 years old. And I had never known anything but my father's rigid structure and control. I had been a top student at Julliard, then a featured soloist and concert master. My father was my mentor, my coach, my manager, my agent. He took care of everything. My life was a series of flights, shaking hands, and theater stages. Then I met you. — Lyla telling Louis her story


I was 19 years old. And I had never known anything but my father's rigid structure and control. I had been a top student at Julliard, then a featured soloist and concert master. My father was my mentor, my coach, my manager, my agent. He took care of everything. My life was a series of flights, handshakes, and theater stages. I guess it was stressful, but I never really thought so. When I was performing, it was everything I was. I felt connected. Like I could feel the world through my music. My friends in the orchestra would go partying after performances. It wasn't often I was allowed to go, but even when I was, I never really felt comfortable. Rooms full of young people drinking and dancing, shouting conversations and making out in dark corners. I just didn't know what to do with myself.

Then I met you. Alone on a rooftop, watching the moon and listening to a lone musician wandering in the night. You looked at me, and I knew you. As if I had heard you before, felt you before, somewhere in my music. I just knew you were out there. For a moment of time, I wasn't on stage, and I still felt like myself. I talked to you, smiled with you, laughed with you, and I didn't feel lost. I heard you breathe, heard you sing and I wasn't confused or scared anymore. You were my music — or I was _your_ music. I don't know. We had the _same_ music? Do you know what I mean? I was in love with you. I don't think I even "fell in love." It was just there.

When I woke up — a really _rude_ awakening from your friends — I knew I was going to be in a lot of trouble with Dad. Staying out all night and sleeping with a boy, like I was some rambunctious teenager going through a rebellious stage. Well, I guess I _was_ a teenager. But I didn't feel guilty. Or embarrassed. Even walking through a group of boys laughing at me after an intimate night. I probably should have been mortified, but I just wasn't. It was so weird. I was smiling all the way back to the hotel. Which didn't sit well with Dad, who threw a fit the second I walked in the door.

I couldn't make it to the meeting spot. Dad had booked me for a last minute performance and was trying to shepherd me to the airport. We were fighting about it when you showed up across the way. I heard you shouting. I did see you. I'm sorry. You came at a very… charged moment. I looked at my dad, and I thought if I walked away right now, everything would change. And I just didn't know what to do. I didn't know where to go from there. I was scared. I just- I just- I couldn't make a decision like that so suddenly. It was a quick performance. I would probably be back in New York in a few days. I would see you again. Excuses. I know.

That performance turned into another one and another. It was weeks before I was back in New York. I know he must have done it on purpose. But by the time we came back, I realized I was pregnant. And I couldn't find you. I went to the arch, hoping you would come. I went so many times and just sat there for hours, hoping. It suddenly seemed so stupid. That I never got your phone number, even your last name. I just knew you were in New York that night we met, you had an Irish accent, and you knew music. In New York it was just as likely that you were passing through as you lived there. I was lost. Again.

I could still feel you out there. Whenever I played, I knew you were out there looking for me too. Sometimes I swear I could hear you singing and playing guitar. But I just couldn't find you. Soon Dad made me stop performing. He wanted to hide my condition. He had tried to get me to get rid of it. When I started showing, he started pushing for adoption. I didn't know what I wanted. Things were changing so fast. I just needed to talk to you, to tell you about the baby, to ask you what happened next. Dad would rail at me about how I was throwing away my future and everything I had worked for. About how I let a one night stand ruin my whole career. I didn't see it that way. I _don't_ see it that way. But when I stopped performing, put my cello away, I… I wasn't as sure. I mean, when I was playing I _knew_ you were out there. Knew that you loved me, that you were looking for me, that you wanted me. But when I stopped playing, stopped feeling, and really thought about it, he had a point. What if it was just a one night stand and I was on my own? What if you had moved on and never even thought of me again? I didn't even know your last name. What if I never found you again? I circled around for months. I kept going back to the arch. Kept waiting for you, but at some point I stopped expecting you to ever show up. I just sat there with our child in my belly and I thought, well at least I have him. At least I had that night with you. And if our son was part of you, he would be my new music. I loved you and I loved him. And I realized that would have to be enough. I would find a new way to live, with our child. I was content with that.

Dad kept fighting me on it. The thing is, once I had made my decision, I wasn't afraid to fight back. For the first time in my life I was talking back, _yelling_ at my father. It's a weird thing to be proud of, especially considering how things turned out, but I kind of am. I got so fed up with him- we were fighting in a hotel restaurant at the time- that I stormed out. And for a moment I thought I could feel you again. So clearly, like you were so near me, I could find you if I just followed the feeling. I was so worked up from my dad, so shocked to feel that connected again, that I was stupid enough not to watch the traffic. Stupid, so stupid! Stupid! I can't even begin to describe how much I hated myself for so long for that moment.

When I woke up in the hospital, and Dad told me he was gone…

I was in the hospital for a few weeks. When I got out, I moved right in with my friend Lizzie. I had money saved up from my performances, and by then I was 20 and able to access my inheritance from my mom. I didn't ask my dad for anything. He tried a few times, to get me to perform again. But I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't even look at him. My music was gone and I hated him. I still hate him. I would dream sometimes, of our son. I knew what he would look like. My messy brown hair and square teeth. Your beautiful blue eyes. At first I would cry. At some point it was just another part of my life. Lizzie and I moved to Chicago, and I started teaching children. It made me feel connected to him. A little bit. These beautiful children, each with their own beautiful song, their own bright future, their own choices to make and life to live. It made me sad and happy at the same time. My music was gone, my child's music was gone, but theirs is still here. That's how I've lived the last 10 years.

To be here now, with August, with you… I still don't know what to do. Isn't that stupid? It's like I haven't grown up at all. But I just don't know what to do with all this happiness. To be this in love, to be this enthralled, to be this… all of this, and not be scared. To know it won't be ripped away from me again. To fall asleep with you and know that in the morning it will be real, that you'll be beside me and I'll find August tucked away in his bed. That I can feel you both here with me. Hear you breathe, hear you laugh, hear you sing. I feel like there's music all around me, and finally I can hear it. All I have to do is listen.


End file.
